


Renaissance

by Pat_Jacquerie (Pat_Nussman)



Category: Blake's 7
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-14
Updated: 2018-05-14
Packaged: 2019-05-06 21:47:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14656887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pat_Nussman/pseuds/Pat_Jacquerie
Summary: Avon and Meegat in a missing scene from "Deliverance."





	Renaissance

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note: Except for a couple of snippets in my Star Wars fannish days, this was basically my first adult story and at the time I thought it was daring and explicit. It's not. It's a pretty mild heterosexual story featuring Avon and Meegat. But even though it's not anything like my writing these days, I don't feel that it's altogether without merit -- I feel the Meegat isn't too horrific and there are lines and images I still enjoy. The original was published in _Straight Blake's #1_ , in (I think) 1988.

  
"You need not worry." She kept her voice low, as her predecessor had taught her, as low and vibrant as the chime of temple bells.

"Worry?" The lord’s hands played restlessly over now-quiescent controls. His hands were strong and well-shaped, hands that had bestowed renewed life upon her race. His voice, so often sharp in addressing his other followers, was gentle with her. She had noted the difference, and unworthy though it might be, rejoiced in it.

Her lord valued her. The ritual could proceed.

Meegat glanced around. Lord Avon’s minions had withdrawn, perhaps deliberately, to the opposite side of the control chamber, allowing them an island of privacy amongst this sea of machinery. Four hours, they had said. Four hours before the lord’s vessel bore him away forever. She must pluck up her courage, complete her duty to generations past and future. "Worry about taking my innocence, Lord."

He went suddenly still, like a startled cat. Surprise made his face vulnerable, almost transparent. "You are _not_ innocent, then?" His voice, level as always, retained that undertone of warmth reserved for her. "I find that difficult to believe."

"I am innocent, Lord." Need she actually affirm it? How could it be otherwise, when she was destined for him? She touched his arm lightly. So close was he that she breathed his distinctive scent, more intoxicating than incense, sweeter than spice. "But it is I who give, not you who take."

"A distinction without a difference." He turned, his hand cupping the air about her cheek, as if she were too delicate for touch. Warmth radiated from his skin. "Meegat, this is not necessary."

Meegat smiled at the faint traces of uncertainty that played through his voice. Sometimes, even a god could be blind. So she had been taught and so now proved to be truth. "Lord, it is the ritual." Surely, that would be explanation enough to a lord so swift in comprehension. She took his hand; their fingers entwined. "It is . . . renewal."

Understanding touched the strong angles of his face. "Meegat." His voice was very soft. Questioning.

"Come."

So she led him from the room, as it had been foretold, through ages past. As for the smiles of his followers, Meegat did not care, and her observant lord, for once, failed to even notice.

*

He had not touched a woman since Anna.

Not from sentiment. Since Anna’s death, he had denied that killer further access to his life. But neither prison nor prison ship had offered opportunity or setting for dalliance and aboard _Liberator_  . . . aboard _Liberator_ he would allow none of his fellow passengers to come so close.

But Meegat was for today. A dream to be here and gone.

Her veil slipped through his fingers, white gossamer scented with the elusive perfume of her hair. Here was no Anna, tough, wry, pragmatic, with rapier words to pierce his defenses. Like a summer mist, Meegat surrounded and enclosed him with warmth, turning stone to yielding flesh.

And here, in this scented stone and tapestry chamber, Kerr Avon allowed that softness to touch him. This once.

The veil slipped to the floor with a whisper of fabric and Meegat’s golden hair swung free, glittering in the softened light. He threaded his fingers through the fragile silken strands, turning her head gently upward. He had no experience with innocence; his world was devoid of the very word. He knew only that such a rarity should be treated with respect.

Her lips parted naturally under his, responding to his caress with explorations of her own, as questing and natural as a child who had tasted neither of good nor of evil. Her arms encircled him, stroking his back through the double layers of tunic and jumper. Avon fought to regularize his breathing, wryly considering the disadvantages of lengthy celibacy.

At last, she drew back, expression naively inquisitive. He touched her face softly and smiled, a genuine smile that seemed odd and unused upon his lips. "Yes?"

"Lord," she asked tentatively, "should we not remove our garments?"

An emotion stirred, so deeply buried as to be utterly nameless. In another reality, another Kerr Avon might have called it tenderness.

He brushed her hair back from her race, lightly tracing the line of her jaw. "Yes," Avon said gently, "we should."

*

He was as beautiful as any legend, moving flesh chiseled from classic stone. The ritual candles cast a golden glow over the roughened silk, drawing the sparkling highlights from the midnight of his hair. And his eyes were . . . 

Meegat caught her breath, suddenly shy, her arms drawn over her nakedness. She could not be so beautiful as her lord . . . he could not possibly find her pleasing. But . . . the ritual must be fulfilled, no matter how unworthy the priestess.

And she, Meegat, had been chosen to speak his Name. The responsibility, as well as the honor, were hers. She extended her arms, palms upward in the symbol of gifting, a pale silhouette against the mixing of darkness and light. "Lord, I am yours."

He seemed to catch his breath, the embers of his eyes becoming flame. "Yes." He moved to the couch, held out his hand in a stylized motion. Truly, he is the prophesied one, to so know the Ritual of Life. She walked toward him lightly, shyness set aside, to meet him embrace for embrace.

The Ritual had begun.

Incense ringed the couch and the cushions were filled with the scents of herbs and precious spice, but neither could be so indicating as learning the touch of akin against skin. She was burnt and cooled at once, fever and chills combined, so that her trembling could only be stilled in the firm clasp of his arms about her, which but set her aflame once more.

"Afraid?" His voice was low, a pitch that vibrated through bones and flesh. His voice was as beautiful as his form.

"No." How could she be afraid with her lord? Would he not protect her, as he protected all who followed him? "So long as I please you."

"You please me."

But in truth, it was he who pleased her, beyond all expectation, with only the touch of his hands, his lips, his tongue. The hands that had set _Deliverance_ aloft played her just as sensitively, as if she, too, were delicate machinery to be brought alive at his touch.

The gifts of the gods were past all understanding.

*

He did not wish to hurt her.

But the control he had always prided himself upon slipped through his fingers like chaff tossed to the wind, with only Meegat’s naive trust holding the thin remains of that control together. Trust was deception, trust was death, but he felt no desire to now instill that difficult lesson which life itself would teach soon enough.

Somehow, he retained control.

Long ago, Kerr Avon had learned the theoretical mechanics of lovemaking in much the same way he had acquired most of his considerable knowledge, swiftly, thoroughly, and with a detached clinical awareness of its future utility. Since then, his interest had become less academic, and he had found that this pursuit, like most in his experience, required a combination of skill and concentration to bring it to a satisfactory conclusion.

Avon concentrated.

Blocking his own body’s sensations, he attuned himself to hers, moving down her body slowly and deliberately. As inexperienced as she was, it was difficult to determine what would please her most, what would sweep her past the point of knowing pain. Every movement, every caress, brought a reaction, like an exquisitely-tuned instrument that would shiver at a touch.

His hands moved down her rib cage to the slight dip of her waist and outward curve of her hip, while his lips tasted the slope, then the tip of her breast. Yes, there. She moaned, her hands finding, gripping his shoulders as if seeking a balance for her tilting world.

Avon tested further: slow circles with the tip of his tongue, then quick flickering forays across and around. He took his time about it, keeping the movements light and teasing, satisfied with her intensifying reactions.

"Lord." Her voice was broken with the effort to breathe, and a light coating of perspiration lay like mist upon her skin. A flush slowed its first blush across her breasts, like the precursor of dawn. "Lord . . . please."

His lips surrounded the hardened tip of her breast more firmly, and he felt her hips jerk forward under the light restraint of his hands, blindly seeking him. Holding her slightly back, lest she break his concentration, he drew her nipple into his mouth, peripherally aware of the sweet-salt taste of her, how she hardened further under the increased stimulus of his touch. He escalated the suction gradually, alert for a sign that pleasure had slipped toward the edges of discomfort.

No such sign appeared.

Instead, her skin turned warm and slippery. Or perhaps his had. At this point, he admitted to himself, it became increasingly difficult to gauge these matters as science turned the corner into art. She arched upward as he transferred his attentions from one breast to the other now familiar enough with her reactions to forgo experimentation in favor of straightforward action.

Meegat’s fingers trailed through his hair, holding him a willing captive to her breast, while her hips strained anew to meet his.

Avon concentrated on concentration. The room had become very warm now, with candles and incense mixing their heady aromas with the more human scent of sexual arousal. The sharp scent of her, the salty taste, the cadence of her motions sent hairline cracks through the fabric of Avon’s stern control.

Carefully, he slid one hand from the curve of her hip to the inside of her thigh, then stroked higher until his finger probed gently between folds of skin. She cried out once, then again, as if in astonishment, her hands sliding from his hair to clutch restlessly over the curve of his shoulders, again and again.

"Yes." He heard his own hoarse voice with something like surprise. He had not meant to speak.

Ignoring the fine trembling of his body, he continued to stroke her, at first slowly and softly, then picking up rhythm and pressure in response to the motion of her hips. Her soft voice became a litany of pleasure, a siren song that pulled at his senses as strongly as did the unconscious flow of her movements, a surging like the tide.

He slipped one finger, then two, inside her, finding the damp readiness of her. A new cadence was established and she answered it readily, thrusting against him in innocent abandon as he gently widened the way. It was time, he thought.

Perhaps, just in time.

 

*

He was truly of the gods, she thought hazily. For who else could cause this transcendental ecstasy, bestow such on his follower?

She clung to him for balance, for sanity, for she knew his was the power to lift her from this sphere and then to bring her safe home again. Thus had it been written.

Opening her eyes, she found his face limned in candlelight, features dark and intense. She felt the power, the concentration in him as if it were truly visible, an arc of light streaming from his fingers to touch the very depths of her being.

She could not stop her trembling. Each movement of his tongue upon her breast, gentle roughness, tore pieces of delight from her soul, as if her insides were being slowly drawn away by some force too terrible, too beautiful, to comprehend. And the merest graze of his fingers below was almost too much to bear the stoking of a hot, consuming fire that would burn her to ashes. She could not bear it, yet she could not bear for it to end. Moving her hips forward, then back, she felt his fingers first fill her, then withdraw, with subtle twists and movements that built the pleasure pain still higher. She pushed forward and upward harder, wanting more of him, more of his caress, and then yet something further still, a beyond she could hardly name.

She hurt. So beautifully.

A cry of protest escaped her as his fingers withdrew altogether, leaving her empty, alone. She could not bear it.

Seconds later his whole body was closer than before, her breasts pressed into the dark hair that dusted his chest, her arms circling the broadness of his shoulders. She felt another part of him, as well, firm against the exquisitely sensitive softness he had caressed into aching awareness. She tilted her pelvis, so that she could feel him yet closer, brush that sensitive part of her against the equal sensitivity of him.

A ripple of tension flowed through his body. He tilted her head, speaking softly into her ear, words mixing with the seductive warmth of his breath. "This may be painful."

It would not be. She had been prepared, when scarcely more than a child: she remembered a brief embarrassment, a longer pain, the hazy explanation of this ritual, of her part in the dance of life.

She wanted to reassure him of this, but found she could not speak. She could only cling to him, trying hard to breathe, longing to dissolve into his skin, absorb the damp muskiness into her very being.

"Avon . . . lord . . . "

Her thighs were eased apart. At his urging, she circled his legs with her own, gladly. Now, the ritual would at last be complete . . . now . . .

__

_Now_.

She cried out. To her surprise, it did hurt, a very little, from a strange tightness that seemed to allow her lord only a reluctant entrance. He stilled for long moments, hands caressing her hair, her throat, a murmured reassurance in his voice. Finally, her arms tightened around him in silent encouragement and he eased further in. Now the pain was much less, though the strangeness of having a part of him within her persisted. So . . . odd . . . 

He kissed her again, and again she felt the molten heat at the surge of his tongue in her mouth and her own meeting it, less shyly than before. She thrust into his mouth, holding his head between her hands to keep him thus. As she did, her hips thrust forward also, and he was seated inside her more firmly than before.

It seemed less and less strange.

He continued to kiss her, and she him, tongues imitating the motion a below. She caught at the rhythm, moved with it. She felt herself surrounding him, his firmness filling her, and now that seemed natural and right, like the dawning of the day, and the darkening of the night.

The excitement built again, but what she had felt before seemed but a pale imitation. She wondered at the sensations caused by mere friction, by the motions of their separation and return the near-agony as he seemed to withdraw, only to return again, filling her with himself. All sensation seemed centered at that joining, pinpricks of flame urging her motions in concert with his.

An urgency built in her, to feel him inside her more deeply, more strongly, more quickly, the friction turning her sparks into flame, like the motion of flint upon stone. Her hands slid from his back to the compact strength of his hips, urging him against her, into her, again and again. And she felt his arms about her, too, cradling her, holding her, protecting her. He was murmuring something now, hoarse and low, but she couldn’t understand his words, could not hear anything but the beat of blood in her ears.

Perspiration dripped from her, but she could hardly feel that, either, except in the warm slipperiness of their bodies as they melded and shifted, one against the other. Her legs slipped up, wrapped about his hips, so she could take him into her more fully. She was soaring, she was burning . . . traveling down a dark tunnel to a destination unknown. She could feel gathering sensation like a wind blowing up before a storm and she knew, she knew . . . 

" _Meegat."_

__

__

She _knew_.

Wave after wave of pure sensation flowed over her, catching her willing-helpless in its tide. Distantly, she heard herself cry out, a tuneless chant, felt herself contract again and again, surrounding her lord’s hardness. Consciousness deserted her, leaving her in a vortex of pure sensation, a feather blown upon the celestial wind . . . 

And then he followed, bearing her higher.

*

Minutes passed, or centuries, before she settled lightly upon solid ground, still barely touching, nearly floating. Strong, shapely hands gently caressed her hips, her batik, carrying her safely back to harbor.

She opened her eyes, smiling. Her lord.

The guttering candles revealed the dark dampness of his hair, plastered in wisps upon his forehead, the glitter of perspiration along the firm line of jaw, the soft remains of a smile lingering about his lips. His face had gentled, somehow, as though he had lowered a barrier of steel that separated him from the world. That face held a universe of wonder for her; she wanted her fingers to trace the straight line of his nose, the angles of jaw and chin, as if to sketch in the perimeters of his soul.

At the thought, he moved closer, as if to hide his face in the flickering shadow. When he spoke, his voice was very quiet, a whisper half-swallowed by stone walls and dying flames. "You see." His hands found place in the tangle of her hair. "I’m not a god." Masculine fingers made sense of the golden mass, smoothing it back. "I am simply a man."

Meegat turned her face into the sweet male fragrance of his shoulder, so that he could not see her smile. Surely, it was as written, that the gods were blind.

The Lord Avon could say what he wished, as the stern dictates of his mind demanded. But she, Meegat, was priestess of her people, she who had fulfilled the ritual.

She knew the truth.


End file.
